The Journal of E Proctor
by Wiztine
Summary: Originally written for school, but I liked it, follows the events of the Crucible from Elizabeth's perspective, rating is for later chapters, might be low, but it never goes worse that what was already in the play.
1. Chapter 1

Entry One

It is said in Scripture that a wife should submit to her husband in everything, but also that a husband should love his wife and keep her without blemish, holy and blameless. Is this a contract, that when broken by one side dissolves the other? If one should fail in his or her duty, is the other free also to fail? Or is this a contract with God above, to try, and never cease trying, come what may? Perhaps my faith wavers, but I wrestle with these questions.

Night last, John came home from the riverside forest where he had been dragging lumber. First from his mouth came a complaint against Thomas Putnam and his claims to others' land, and I asked him the occasion upon which he and Putnam had met that day. He told me at the home of Reverend Parris, a strange place, as he and I have not been to church for many a week now for dislike of Parris, or rather, his sermons, but he was there as a concerned neighbor inquiring on the condition of young Betty Parris, but ten years old, taken ill. And what an odd illness it was! She lay still upon her bed, eyes closed, as asleep, but when from below came the sound of those singing a psalm, her face screwed up, she clapped her ears shut, and she whined, as though to block the psalm from reaching her soul, an evil action, not just in itself, but one provoking suspicion among many. I know not what to think; she is but ten years on this earth!.

Whilst John was there, the reverend from Beverly, Reverend John Hale, arrived, summoned by Parris to examine Betty. He specializes in witchcraft, and recently in Beverly uncovered several witches; however, methinks Parris may be a bit ahead of himself in so quickly calling him here. 'Twas just the night before that Betty had taken ill. When I voiced these thoughts to John, he replied that Parris had caught several girls, Betty and her cousin Abigail included, dancing in the forest and communing with spirits through Parris' slave, Tituba from Barbados. Well! When I heard of Abigail's involvement, it took a new angle for me.

She worked for John and I once, not all too long ago, but when I took sick over winter last, I fear that she and John may have had unrighteous relations. I observed them sneaking glances, brushing against one another, and, Abigail especially, having an air of superior secrecy. After all, John was a strong man in good health, burdened with an ailing wife, and Abigail was a young girl, unspoiled, who had not grown up entirely in Salem and under our instruction, but had been sent here after the death of her parents. She was, is, I suppose, a bold girl, leading the other girls her age, and has but little inclination to heed moral and ethical laws. Eventually, I requested to John that we dismiss her, and whether he did so from guilt of the affair, the urge to rid himself of temptation, or, one can always hope, simply a desire to please me, he did.

That was seven month ago. Since then, we have hired Mary Warren, and there have been to my eyes no signs of unfaithfulness. But still, there is a tension between John and I, most prominent when Abigail is present, in thought or in person. Perhaps I was wrong in my suspicions, and though I never spoke of them specifically with John, he holds me as falsely accusing him. But no, John knows me, he knows that I would not lie about something of that nature. A false witness is an abominable thing, and that I hope never to be.


	2. Chapter 2

Entry Two

I am cold, cold as never I've before been. It is a dry cold, dry and brittle, like rust, everywhere. I draw my knees up to my chest, but the cold is inside as well, in my very core. My heart may well have stopped, I feel nothing.

I am in the jail, in a small room, with but one high window, facing north. The sun is setting, and quickly; my eyes strain to see this. I am not alone. Rebecca Nurse is here, and Martha Corey and others. No one speaks. All are in shock, I think, and rightly so. How quickly everything is happening. Was it only a day ago I was putting the children to bed? Was it only a week ago Betty Parris was merely sick? The town is mad, thrashing about everywhere, like a blinded beast in death throes; we are simply the unfortunate to have been hit.

It was last dusk like this when John returned home from planting the fields, later than was usual, but not all that late. I had been worried for him, fearing him come here to Salem, to this madness, to Abigail. Ah Abigail! But her place in this tale will come later. John returned, and I gave him supper, and told him Mary was in Salem Court as an official, and of what I knew of the goings-on there. Madness, madness. He agreed to go to them and give evidence of the falseness of the girls' testimony, but oh! that seems so long ago. Shortly after, Mary returned, with a small poppet, made, she said, in the hours of court for me. Though I saw it for only a few minutes, I remember every detail. The small, blank eyes, the frozen smile, the grey dress, just the shade of the rumbling sky before a storm. The memory of it haunts me now; I must banish it from mind.

Mary told us that nine and thirty were now arrested, and more had been mentioned – including me! Perhaps she hadn't meant to tell us that, but she began to put on airs, and John got the whip and threatened her, and 'twas then she claimed to have saved my life, speaking up when my name was mentioned. Madness, madness in this town. Mary left to bed, and John would then have been on his way to Salem, but for the arrival of Reverend Hale, here also about my name. He questioned us, merely to "help him draw a clear opinion of them that come accused before the court," and all seemed well. But God had no wind of the Devil's intentions before the Devil left; the night was not over for us.

Giles Corey and Francis Nurse came, within half a minute of each other; both their wives had been taken. Madness! Never was there such a Christian woman as Rebecca Nurse, and Martha Corey's faith could move mountains. But even they were accused, and if they, surely none were safe. But no longer is this a court to find those possessed by the Devil; no, this court has become a place for the girls, led by Abigail, and their families to call down vengeance on every petty argument that comes to mind. Their word has become law, and there is none to stop them.

The last visitor of the evening, at least that I know of, was Ezekiel Cheever. Before he came, there was warmth, friendship, mutual support, at the worst a common goal with Reverend Hale. When Ezekiel appeared in the doorway, for appear he did, no warning had we of his coming, it was as though all the light were vanished, all the warmth in the world sucked away. Through the open door I remember a chill wind entering. After his entrance, much is a blur in my mind.

I remember disbelief, I remember closing my eyes and sending up a prayer, I remember thinking of the children, asleep upstairs. As from a distance, I remember him asking about poppets. At first I knew not of what he spoke, but then he spied the one Mary had brought, so long ago! and I left to fetch Mary, feeling weightless, dazed. At the top of the stairs I paused and sank to my knees, whispered another prayer. Then I knocked and entered Mary's small room and bade her come with me.

With her by my side, my wits began to slowly return. John and Reverend Hale questioned her about the poppet, and we learned of a needle, found stuck in Abigail's belly at supper, and of a needle embedded in the same place in the poppet. Mary said that found in the poppet was Abigail's doing; Hale said that Abigail accused me. Me! I suppose I should not be in such shock, but I had faith in the basic goodness, truthfulness of others; I underestimated Abigail and her desire for John. Oh, how was I caught in this trap! In my unthinking shock I let slip words of malice against the girl, and for that Ezekiel revealed a warrant, a warrant for my arrest.

John, oh brave John, he tore it from his hands and ripped it in two, damning the Deputy Governor from whence it came and ordering Ezekiel out of our house. In that moment, I had complete faith in him. I knew that whatever had transpired between him and Abigail, he was still my husband and would fulfill his duty and more than. So readily he defended me! With such determination! With that display, I felt capable of facing anything, and to keep him from also being accused, I said I would go. I said I would go.

I knew that I had done no wrong. I knew that I was no witch. I knew that Abigail and her friends were lying. I had John, and I had truth, with the truth, I had God on my side. I said I would go.

I gazed about the room slowly, and then left the warmth and relative safety of my home, not turning back, leading the way into the dark night. The dark night. No moon shone, great patchy billows of clouds masked the stars. The wind was strong; the trees rattled and rasped. I shuddered as I heard the door swing shut behind. Then, a cloud shifted, and starlight shone upon the second story window, lighting three pale faces.

I don't know whether or not I cried out, but Herrick and Ezekiel then came up and put chains on me, and they sapped my strength. I heard John call out, but they pushed him back, and then we were on our way.

We stopped at several more homes, collecting women like a harvest, then arrived at the jail, where we have been since. We've seen no one, heard nothing. We barely speak amongst ourselves.

Oh, I am cold, so cold!


	3. Chapter 3

Entry Three

Oh God! How foolish I have been; how wavering, how faithless! Had I but trusted in You, what might now be changed! Had I but trusted! And yet You show your power still, in such terrible times, still You shine out.

Not five minutes past, I heard them bring John by this cell; I heard their heavy boots; I heard him crying out in despair and anguish. I tried to cry out to him, redeem myself some small bit in his eyes, lessen his pain, but my voice would not come. Like a stone, a choking stone, it stuck in my throat, and made me mute.

I was called from this cell into court this afternoon by Reverend Parris. He was silent the whole way, and walked with his head down and in a hurried, purposeful stride. When we arrived at the meetinghouse, Deputy General Danforth called us in, and then Parris left, I think, but then my wits had fled. To where the pulpit stands on Sundays Danforth walked, and then turned slowly to face me, tall, erect, and with a hard, set face. His eyes seemed as cold, black fires, daring me to pass through. One on each side of him, with their backs to me, Abigail and John stood.

Oh John! When I saw him, I realized the depth of my love for him, and his for me. He had come after me, had come to court to argue me back to his side. But he stood silent, steady, but tense; all the musty air in that large room was filled with tension. At once, it began to overwhelm me, and I think I may have begun to sway, but then Danforth began questioning me, and I fixed my gaze on him to anchor me.

He spoke of Abigail, as I suppose I should have known he would, and of her dismissal, as a fact. I verified it. He asked the cause. Oh, the cause!

I remember, late that evening, towards the end of my sickness, searching for John. He said he had gone to check on the animals before turning in, and that he would return shortly, but I had in the space of his absence put the boys to bed and tidied the house, and so, thinking him run into difficulty to be taking so long, donned my shawl and slipped into the night after him. He had taken the lantern, so I went without. I called softly for him, not wishing to wake the children, and heard no answer. I went to the pens, and saw him not. I ventured to the chicken house without finding him. Finally I went to the stable.

No light shone from within, but as I reached the door I paused. Was I imagining it, or were there voices coming from within? My stomach turned, and almost panicking, I push open the heavy door and called John's name.

The screech that issued forth from the little-oiled hinges was peaceful silence compared to the tearing, the shredding, the twisting of my heart that came after seeing two figures rise up from the hay like specters, slowly, oh-so-slowly breaking apart. One I knew to be John, knew from the pale rays of moonlight striking his jaw, his face. The other I looked upon only for an instant; indeed, before I looked I knew who I would find. So only briefly did I glance upon her face; I perhaps didn't assure my self… But no. I seek to atone for my words in court, but no. I knew it was Abigail Williams, I knew.



That very night I insisted she leave, and she did so quickly enough, setting out alone on the five mile walk to her uncle's home. What she told them, I can only imagine, but since that night, she has, in my eyes, and to her eternal shame, ever sought John out, alone, or at the very least without myself present. I began going back over her time with us, searching for, and finding, details, little clues of their deeper relationship, which plagued me right up to my arrest, when John so vehemently defended me. Since then, I spied her casting looks at John, hoping to catch his eyes, but, to my knowledge, and his credit, he never returned them. Ah, but what I know must be there, and what I suspect must be there! I told John that there was a promise made in every bed, and he believed me not; well, perhaps it is different for men, but I know that in Abigail's heart must still linger hope for him, hope for her to be with him, most definitely the cause of these charges against me.

All those thoughts, memories ran through my head as I heard Danforth ask me that question, _why did you dismiss Abigail Williams_, and so long I stood there, he repeated the question. _Dissatisfaction_, said I, but he pressed on. I felt my palms moisten, my clothing grow hot, and I tried to turn my gaze to John for guidance, but Danforth's cold fire-eyes held me riveted. I prayed for help with feelings, too trapped to put it into words, and tried to plunge ahead. I told of John's good character, of my sickness, and came in my tale to Abigail. I paused, and glanced at her, only to have Danforth call my eyes back onto him. I said I had lost my wits that night, that awful night.

Ah me! How untrusting! But for that moment, before, and now after, I knew what had truly transpired between them. But in that moment, in that moment the ultimate question was asked, _is your husband a lecher_, I faltered. Perhaps from the heat, perhaps from the pressure, mayhap even from a small thought in my head wishing to be brave and save John, I faltered. In that moment all the doubt that ever could have surrounded that moment rose up and surrounded me, stifled me, stifled all surety of the truth, and I said those awful words, _no, sir_. They haunt me now, ringing over and over in my ears in the silence of this cell. _No, sir_.

That was all they wanted out of me, and I was swept out. The last words I heard were from John, _Elizabeth, I have confessed it!_ He confessed! He who would not speak of it to me, his wife, had confessed it to the courts for all the world to know, to discredit Abigail and save me, and I had not the courage to trust in God and speak what I knew to be truth. Oh John! How unworthy I am to have you!

But in all this, there shines a ray of sun. I have missed; a baby is coming! At first I doubted the wisdom of bringing a child into this world, this horrid world where so much is so uncertain, but I have learned my lesson, and I will trust in God. If, after so long, he sends a child, I shall bear it readily. And there are immediate benefits, the court won't hang a woman bearing a child; the child has done nothing wrong. I have time. God has given me time. We are alone in this cell, trapped, our fates swaying with the whims of the court, but we have God, and we will trust in Him.


	4. Chapter 4

Entry Four

Three month. Ninety day. Countless hours, countless minutes. For me, it is an eternity and an instant, forever and nothing. Three month it has been since John was jailed here, mayhap a week longer I've been. A second seemed to last hours, but now it all seems so long ago.

John has died. The words flow reluctantly, but they must flow. John has died. He died in the best way he could have. He died for what he believed, doing what he thought right, and that is the most anyone can do. His faith was strong, he trusted in God. Right up to the end, he considered carefully, after three month in the dungeon, he died.

So many have died. Giles Corey, pressed to death. _More weight, more weight_, he said. May his spirit ever haunt those that killed him. Rebecca, on the same day as John. All of them, so full of conviction, goodness. May those that killed them one day see the truth, the horror in what they did.

Those that died did the right thing. In my last words with John, he pleaded with me to forgive him. Forgive him! It was I should have asked his forgiveness; I cannot judge him. None may judge others; that is for God to do. _Do as you will_, I said, and he did, he did what he thought right. He saw clearly in that last day; he recognized God and God alone as his judge, the only one to whom he was accountable, and he conducted himself accordingly.

My last sight of him was as he mounted the steps of the gibbet. At the top he glanced once in my direction, even far away as I was, and inside too, and then he turned to his place and out of my view. As the drums played, my heart began to race, faster and faster, then once they crashed and then fell silent, and with them, my heart seemed to stop. I sank down to the ground, overcome, stunned, finally absorbing the impact of the madness in this town, and would have stayed there 'til dead, but for the baby.



In the midst of the blur that came, I felt my baby move. It was the only thing shielding me from dying with John and Rebecca and the others, and I determined then that once it is born, I will shield it in return. Praise be to God for this baby!

These events have made the world gone mad and close its ears to reason, but ultimately, this world matters little. John, all of them now, are in heaven, they are in God's care. There's little to fear from this world, because the next is always waiting. The worst punishment from this world is to be sent on. I have no fear of that.


End file.
